Survivors
by rebeldivaluv
Summary: MidOotP. Harry's best friends come to an understanding after the tragic loss in the Department of Mysteries.


[A/N:  I would just like to thank everyone for the tremendous support they've shown for my stories!  I definitely didn't expect it.  This shall be the last of my OotP outtakes, however.  At least, I believe so.  It's the last of the ones that have been swimming in my brain since I read book five.  It will probably be a while before I post again.  I have an idea for a real R/H story (multi-chaptered and everything, lol), but it still needs some work on development, and there's a story I'm writing for another fandom that I've promised to finish.  Anyway, until then, thanks for everything!  Sorry to send off on such an angsty note, but as the Goddess herself chose to leave us that way, I can't feel I'm doing too wrong.]

Disclaimer:  I don't own.  I would never have killed Sirius, but I'm soft-hearted like that.

**Survivors**

_Sirius Black is dead._

The words repeated inside Hermione Granger's brain until she thought she would lose all her long-enforced self-control and burst into tears.  She forced back the familiar stinging sensation and blinked rapidly to keep up the illusion of being the strong one.  She wished she could push the thought away with as much success.

_Sirius Black is dead._

People had been saying that for days now.  Harry never brought himself so far as to say the words.  He'd start to tell the story, and then he would blanch like he was about to be ill and suddenly discover there was somewhere else he needed to be.  Hermione didn't have the heart to press him.  He would come to them in his own time.  He always did.

It was to Neville Longbottom whom she and Ron owed most of their intelligence of that horrible night.  It would almost be amusing, if it wasn't so heart-breaking.  After all the years she and Ron had spent as Harry's best friends and protectors, it was Neville—the boy who thought he was the next thing to a Squib—who had been by Harry's side for the worst night of his life…so far.  

Sirius Black had died.

Hermione's eyes burned again as she thought back to her first memories of Harry's impulsive godfather.  It seemed surreal remembering how afraid they had all been of him.  A whole year spent in worry for Harry's safety culminating in the unexpected discovery of a new protector for Harry.  

She remembered her fear as the great black dog had tackled Ron, dragging him under the Whomping Willow and out of sight.  Even now, she could recall her overwhelming horror of never seeing Ron alive again.  All she had to do was look at him sleeping in the hospital bed beside her to feel that ache.  The burns on his arms were proof that once more she could have lost him, and she would never have known it until it was too late.

_I'm not going to think about that_, she scolded herself with Scarlett O'Hara like denial.  There were certain places she never allowed her mind to go.  Losing Ron was one of them.

Hermione searched for her lost train of thought.  It was usually easy for her to focus on one idea at a time and follow it to completion.  The last few days had been a blur of fear and grief and anxiety that ruined all her philosophical detachment.

_Sirius_, she recalled with blinding clarity.  _I was thinking about Sirius.  _

It wasn't hard to conjure up the image of the dark, handsome wizard; the wicked grin; the wild, black hair around the pale face; the haunted look in his deep-set eyes.  She still found herself glancing occasionally towards the ward doors, as if any moment Padfoot would come bounding in, and Sirius would transform and laugh at them all for thinking he was really gone.

But he wasn't coming back.  Sirius Black was dead.  Sirius, who was Harry's godfather—one of the last links to his parents.  Sirius, who had suffered twelve years' imprisonment with Dementors, only to escape for Harry's sake.  Sirius, who had finally made Harry feel like part of a family.

Hermione winced.  That was what made the loss so awful.  She had only to think of Harry's face when Sirius had offered to let him stay with him and compare it to the look she had seen there today.  Had only two short years produced such a change?

No, it wasn't time that had changed Harry, Hermione reflected.  Life had.  _Death_ had.  They were all changed now.  Older, wiser, sadder.  But it was Harry who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.  Of course, he always had.  He just seemed to know it now.  She couldn't look at Harry anymore without wanting to have her arms around him.  She wanted to hold him and stroke his hair and let him cry out every last pain in his heart.  The knowledge that he would never allow himself to break down like that only made her long for it more.  

Very few people, she thought, would understand the kind of love she had for Harry.  It was something indefinable, something that defied all her cool logic to categorize.  He was her best friend, but he was more than that.  He was the brother she had never had.  He was the little, lost boy who had spent ten years of his life practically locked in a cupboard.  He was the powerful wizard who would save the world.  But he was just…Harry.  

Hermione looked at Ron, willing him to wake.  He would understand.  He was probably the only person in the world who understood.  Well, there had been one other, but he was gone now.  She winced, pushing the thought aside.  She couldn't think about Sirius anymore.  She wouldn't.

She knew she hadn't made any noise.  She hadn't even moved from the spot where she lay in the silent hospital wing, eyes focused on the occupant in the bed across from hers.  But her thoughts must have traveled straight into Ron's mind.  She wasn't surprised when he opened his eyes and stared at her.  

He didn't appear shocked at finding her watching him.  Indeed, there was a solemn strength about Ron that always had a way of calming her when she was most upset.  Like now.  "Hey," he said quietly, the word strangely loud in the deserted ward.  Even Madame Pomfrey had gone to bed hours ago.  

"Hey," she echoed back at him, her head still resting on the pillow as they faced each other.  

It should have felt strange to be lying opposite Ron, both in their pajamas, alone together.  In any other circumstance, she probably would have been horribly embarrassed.  But now, it felt…right.  The only way things could be.

"You can't sleep."  It wasn't a question.  Penetrating blue eyes under that flaming red hair assessed her condition in mere seconds.

Hermione shook her head, surprised that his simple statement caused tears to spring up again.  Did she ever sleep anymore?  True, peaceful, untroubled slumber, with no nightmares and no worries about the future to keep her tossing and turning all night.  Such things seemed relegated to the long ago days when she had been a child, an innocent girl with nothing to worry about but how she would do on her next Potions exam.  

"Harry's not sleeping either," Ron remarked, as if commenting on the weather.  

She blinked, taken aback by his certainty.  "How do you know that?"

Ron shrugged.  "I know.  Harry won't sleep for a long time.  When he does, he'll have nightmares again."

"We all have nightmares now," Hermione whispered, longing for her mother to walk into the room and stroke back her hair and soothe her fears as simply as when she was four and feared monsters in her closet.  But she wasn't four anymore.  Her mother wasn't here.  The monsters that terrified her were real.

"Yeah."  Ron rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, his face stoic.  

Some time passed in silence as Hermione listened to the rhythm of his deep breathing near her.  She had almost convinced herself Ron had fallen asleep when he spoke in an unexpectedly soft voice.  "He's really gone, isn't he?"

Hermione drew in a sharp breath.  Hearing Ron say it aloud made it sound so - final.  She wasn't sure she could trust her powers of speech, but somehow, she choked out, "Yes."  The painful knot in her throat was close to bursting.  No word had ever pained her more.

She was astonished when Ron began to laugh.  She had never heard Ron laugh like that.  It was the kind of bitter, hollow noise she had come to expect from Sirius and—to some degree—from Harry.  But never from Ron.  Not from her Ron.

"All that time I spent worrying about my dad," he muttered, seemingly to himself, "and Harry, and you, and Ginny, and, well, everybody, and I never thought…never for a moment…He just seemed too strong, you know?"

Hermione nodded, though he wasn't looking her way and probably couldn't have seen her in the darkness even if he had been.  

Silence reigned once more.  Ron covered his face with his hands.  Hermione watched him, trying to gauge his thoughts.  When he did speak, she was sure the words were distorted from the muffling effects of his hands.  Surely, Ron couldn't think…But again, he said it.  

"It's my fault."

Incredulous, Hermione stared at him.  Those were words she expected to hear from Harry.  Harry was the one who took everything on his own shoulders.  "I don't understand.  How could it possibly be your fault?"

Ron turned towards her, and she nearly gasped at the red circles round his eyes.  "Isn't it obvious?  You were right, Hermione.  You're always right, and I knew it.  I've always known it.  But I didn't want to get in the middle of it."  He laughed again, that bitter laugh that sent cold shivers down her back.  "I was a coward.  All year long, I couldn't tell my brothers off.  Couldn't support you in anything you said or did.  I knew you were right.  You said it was a trap.  If I had backed you up, if I had said something, anything, maybe Harry wouldn't have insisted on going, maybe he would have taken a moment and seen what was going on.  We wouldn't have been in the Department of Mysteries that night, which means Sirius wouldn't have been there either.  He'd still be alive."

Hermione tried to suppress her shock as the words came pouring out of Ron.  The anger, the self-reproach, the guilt.  All the things she had been feeling and been too afraid to say.  "No," she finally managed in a small voice.  "No, it was my fault.  I'm the one who should have stopped Harry.  I knew what we were walking into, and I—"

"It was not your fault, Hermione."  There was a note of steel in Ron's voice which forbade further argument.  "You tried to warn us.  But we, as usual, wouldn't listen."

"Harry thought Sirius needed his help.  He wouldn't be Harry if he didn't try to save him.  I put it wrong.  When I went to him, I said all that stupid stuff about playing the hero, when I should have just…I don't know, been there for him, made him see it on his own."

"There's nothing you could have said that would have stopped him, Hermione," Ron reassured her.

"Then, nothing you could have said would have either," she shot back.  If he was determined to clear her name from blame, he would have to deal with it too.

"At least you tried," he managed in a defeated tone.

That was it, she realized.  Defeat.  This was what defeat felt like.  Never before had she felt this burning, aching sense of failure.  Even at the end of fourth year, there had been cause to hope, reason to imagine they could set things right.  But now, Sirius was dead, and he was dead because each and every one of them had done something wrong.  Harry.  Ron.  The Order.  Even Dumbledore.  Even herself.

_Fifteen is too young_, she protested to whatever deities of fate and fortune were listening to her thoughts.  _Too young to have our illusions shattered.  Too young to see the good are fallible.  Good people lose.  Good men die.  _

Hermione felt like she had lived a long time.  She was strangely detached from the memory of the hustle and noise of her fellow Gryffindors.  She imagined going back to sharing the tower bedroom with Lavender and Parvati.  Their giggles.  Their gossip.  Their petty problems.  Her own foolishness, worrying over O.W.L.s, haunted her. What did it matter?

Sirius Black was dead.

She didn't know how long the tears had been dropping down her cheeks.  She was unaware of giving them permission to fall.  It didn't even occur to her that she was crying until Ron was standing over her, awkwardly proffering her a tissue and looking everywhere but at her face.

"Er…right.  It's all right.  Use this," he said peremptorily, as if somehow that would stop her tears from falling.

Hermione felt ridiculous.  She remembered how Ron had reacted to Harry's description of Cho's crying and was even more embarrassed for allowing him to see her weep.  For some reason, this made her cry even harder.  Was it possible that had been merely six months ago?  Sobs shook her small frame as she gave into all her grief.  Every fear she felt for Harry, for herself, for the world was determined to come out tonight.  She thought of Sirius.  She thought of Cedric.  She thought of Harry.  

And then, bandaged arms were wrapping around her back, lifting her up as though she were no more than a child.  Quite without knowing how it happened, Hermione found herself cradled in Ron's embrace as he sat on the edge of her bed and rocked her back and forth, stroking her hair, and whispering words that held no meaning, but somehow meant everything to her.

In that other lifetime, before Sirius had died, Hermione could only imagine with what joy she would have greeted the prospect of being held by Ron Weasley.  Now, there was only the comfort of having his solid presence at her back, his shoulder to weep into, his breath in her ear.  She could hear his heart beating, felt each rise and fall of his chest, and sensed that only the greatest restraint was keeping him from sobbing too.  She clutched onto him, as though any second he too might disappear behind that veil.

"You…you c-can't," Hermione choked between sobs, "leave me."  The words had barely processed through her brain before they were out of her mouth, but it was the truest thing she had ever said in her life.  She must always have this one security, the strength of Ron, if she was to get through everything else they would have to bear.

"I'm right here, Hermione," he soothed, his voice cracking as he spoke.  He pulled her tighter to him, one hand tangling in her untamable hair.

She pulled away, puffy brown eyes intent as she met his gaze.  "You. Can't. Leave. Me," she repeated, emphasizing every word.  

Ron seemed shocked at her vehemence.  He opened his mouth to speak, seeming ready to offer an affirmation, and then he shook his head.  That frighteningly solemn look entered his face.  Hermione had seen that look on his face before.  The first time had been in the middle of a giant chessboard, when Ron stepped forward and faced a murderous queen.  It had been there again the day he placed himself between Harry and Sirius and declared Sirius would have to kill them all.  It was the look he got when he defended her from Malfoy and whenever Harry was in trouble.  It was the look she had seen on his face in the Department of Mysteries.

He looked at her, that light shining out of his eyes, and spoke the antithesis of the vow for which she longed.  "I won't let anything happen to Harry."

The words sunk like a rock to the pit of her stomach.  Ron would die rather than see Harry hurt.  She had long known that.  It was one of the things she most loved about him.  It was what she felt herself.  They had always had a tacit understanding that their lives were forfeit to Harry, but right now, tonight, days after having lost Sirius, it wasn't what she wanted to hear.

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but the words died on her lips as Ron's big, clumsy hands came up to cradle her face between them, his thumbs idly stroking the still flowing tears away.  "I won't let anything happen to you either."

Hermione knew that.  She had known that since she was eleven years old and he had knocked out a troll to save her.  It was just another one of those things that had been always known and never said.  But hearing it said, in Ron's earnest voice, his hands still caressing her, his blue eyes gazing into her, that look still upon his face, made her heart stop.  She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  She wanted to fling her arms round him and never let him go.  She wanted to run away and hide from the emotions assaulting her.  There was nothing logical about them.

Almost unwittingly, her hands came to rest upon the still raw wounds on his arms.  Even covered by bandages, they pained him.  Hermione knew it, though he refused to let it show.  He had been burned, stung, scarred in ways she could only begin to imagine.  For Harry.  He would die for Harry.  For her.  She placed a kiss on each arm, though she knew the gesture was childish.  

There was nothing childish in the look on Ron's face when she looked up again.  "Hermione," he choked, his hands dropping uselessly to his sides.

She inhaled sharply.  There was something so wondrous about the way he was looking at her, the way he said her name.  It made her heart stop beating.  She'd been longing for him to look at her like that for two horribly long years—probably longer, if she was honest with herself.  How was it possible for something to feel so very right and so very wrong at the same time?  

Sirius Black was dead.  A war was starting.  Their best friend was at the center of it, and it was their duty to do everything in their power to protect him.  They knew it.  They knew it as surely as if they'd sworn pledges of loyalty to him on that long ago first trip on the Hogwarts Express.  They would die for Harry.  Their lives were forfeit to him.

But Hermione didn't _want _to die.  She wanted to live a long life, with Ron always looking at her the way he was now.  Somehow, that thought made the prospect of the war to come more dreadful than ever.  He might never look at her again.  They might leave for the summer, and Ron might never come back.  Or she could be murdered in her own house.  Or Harry…

"Ron," she whispered finally, surprised by the steadiness of her voice.  "You need to put me down."

"I know."  His blue eyes met hers for one second longer, and everything they knew was said without words.

_I love you.  I'll always love you.  But it can't be yet._

It was an unspoken vow for the dark days ahead, a promise of a future…if any of them had a future beyond this.  But more than that, it was a pact—to protect their best friend at all costs.  Hermione had been cursed; the purple flame had scorched an indelible image across her chest.  Ron had been burned; twisted thoughts marked his freckled skin.  The Boy Who Lived had a scar that marked him a survivor.  Now, Ron and Hermione had scars of their own.

Sirius Black was dead.  The war had just begun...

FIN.


End file.
